John Watson would be getting married in three days time. He was engaged to a lady named Mary Morstan, a teacher at the primary school just down the road from the medical surgery in which John worked. The build-up to the imminent wedding should have been the happiest time of his life, but John had never felt more unhappy. More lonely, more unloved, more broken. Since moving out of 221B to live with Mary - the memories back at Baker Street had proven to be too painful, heart-wrenching reminders of a portion of John's life during which he had actually felt alive - he hadn't heard from Mrs Hudson. He had no reason to see Molly any more, now that he didn't have anyone to drag him off to St Bart's hospital at a moments notice to perform an experiment on some poor cadaver. Mycroft hadn't kidnapped him in what felt like an age. Even Lestrade's phone calls, requesting John's assistance at a crime scene, were becoming even more scarce than they had been originally. He felt alone, replaced, forgotten.
As loath as John was to make the analogy, ever since Sherlock's death, everything had felt like a game. John felt like a pawn in a game of chess: an ordinary piece, certainly not unique or particularly important, and the first thing's wellbeing to be sacrificed for the sake of the other players, for the other pieces on the board. John wanted to profess to being sick of hearing about games, or any references to puzzles or problems, but he couldn't honestly do so with conviction. He missed them. He missed being on the winning side with Sherlock. They were both on the losing side now, and although it seemed unfair on Mary to say that John had lost everything, it was true nonetheless.
When asked, John couldn't give a definite answer with regards to how long it had been since Sherlock's suicide. It wasn't because he didn't care, but because all the days had simply blurred into one. His life was monotonous, dull, boring, tedious, and any other Sherlock-like synonym that could be thought of to describe it. John could now empathise with how his misunderstood best friend must have felt, experiencing something that nobody else could possibly hope to relate to. Being able to profess to understanding at least some of the innermost workings of Sherlock's mind was something that John would never have expected to be able to do before now. The saying about people only learning through first-hand experience was true.
"John, are you okay?"
Mary's voice roused John from his musings, making him jump. He hadn't noticed her enter the sitting room in which he sat, armchair positioned against the window, subconsciously looking for the one person on the pavement below who would never walk past. Still startled, John immediately reverted back into his 'I'm fine' facade. "I'm fine, love."
Mary didn't seem to be convinced by John's lie. She crouched down beside her fiance's chair. "Are you sure, love? You look like you've been crying."
John raised a hand to his face in order to check. Sure enough, his eyes were damp, and the skin of his cheeks were slightly tight from where streams of tears had dried on them. He'd been crying without even realising it, which was a testament as to how far he had submerged himself in his own thoughts in order to escape reality. Frantically, he began to wipe away the tears, fumbling over how to explain his current emotional state. "Oh, I must've...erm..."
"It's alright, John. I understand. The wedding's coming up soon, and it's a big change in our lives," Mary offered in lieu of a proper explanation, though they both knew that the stress and significance of the wedding was not the real reason that John was crying.
"Yes, I suppose you're right. It's only natural to feel a little overwhelmed at times," replied John, grateful for Mary's understanding. He rose from his chair as Mary simultaneously stood, reaching out to embrace her fiance, to reassure him. "I don't deserve you, you know."
Mary blushed, hiding her face in John's jumper. "Don't be silly, John."
John pulled away so that he could look into her eyes as he spoke. "No, seriously, Mary. Not many women would've put up with me, especially with how I've been these last few weeks. I thought that I'd been making some progress. Clearly, I was wrong."
Mary rested her head against John's right shoulder, taking care to avoid the left one as his old war wound still caused him pain. "No, love. You weren't wrong. I never knew Sherlock Holmes, personally, but from what you've told me about him, he was a good man, somebody that could be forgiven for making such an impression on you and affecting you in the way that he did."
"What do you mean, love?" mumbled John, gently resting his chin against the top of Mary's head.
"I just meant that Sherlock Holmes doesn't sound like a very forgettable man."
John lifted his head and scoffed, his voice bitter, resentful. "The world has forgotten him."
This time it was Mary's turn to pull away and look into John's eyes. "No, they haven't, love. They've just moved on. People have to, it's not healthy to dwell on things that can't be changed. Maybe you should try and move on, too."
John stayed silent, not trusting himself to answer what he deemed to be a ridiculous request from his fiancee. He just couldn't move on. Did she think he hadn't been trying? Did she think that, for all of this time, he had wanted to be in a state of perpetual pain emotionally?
Mary noticed that John's expression was beginning to grow stormy, and quickly clarified what she had meant. "I'm not suggesting that you forget about him, love," she said soothingly. "I just don't think that you should spend all this time thinking about him. Sherlock Holmes is your past, you and I are the future. Concentrate on something else, like our wedding, or getting ready to go back to your job at the surgery after our honeymoon."
John dropped his arms from where they had been resting upon Mary's shoulders. "I try, Mary. Honestly, I do. I know that it doesn't seem like it sometimes."
Mary stepped back, ever wary of how her fiance would respond when the topic of Sherlock Holmes was mentioned. There had only been one occasion where John had become physically volatile when lashing out over the pain of losing Sherlock, knocking ornaments off a shelf in rage, but he had never hurt anybody. It was similar to his temperament just after he had returned from Afghanistan. Now, John was more of a danger to himself at times than he was to others, especially with the added pressure of the wedding. "I know, love but I don't know what else to suggest. He's not coming back, and I'm not going anywhere. What more can I do to reassure you that you won't be left alone again, John?"
"You make me sound like a child, Mary," John argued, turning his back on her. "A child scared of being left behind by his parents on his first day of school, or something." As soon as the words left his lips, an unbidden image of Sherlock throwing what could only be described as a 'tantrum' about the solar system whilst sat on 221B's couch, accompanied by Lestrade's quip 'Well I'm dealing with a child' came into his mind. It was as if John was being haunted by the memory of Sherlock Holmes. The man really did have to have the last word on everything, even when he was dead.
"No, love, I didn't mean it like that," Mary tentatively reached out to touch John's shoulder, but decided against it and let her arm fall back to her side. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, the paranoia that people will leave. I've experienced it in my other relationships."
"I'm not paranoid that you'll leave, Mary! I don't think there's any danger of you doing that, is there? You never leave me alone!" John snapped, whirling round again to face her. Even without looking into Mary's eyes, and seeing her hurt expression, John knew that he had overstepped the mark. Mary was only trying to help, offering advice and worldly knowledge. It wasn't her fault that she just wasn't saying the right things, the things that he desperately needed to hear. "I'm really sorry, love. I didn't mean to snap. You know that I didn't mean what I said; I don't really want you to go. Forgive me."
Her heart racing from John's quick mood change, Mary gave a small smile that was intended to be reassuring, but probably came across more as though she was in pain. "I know, love, it's okay. Of course I forgive you, it doesn't matter. Nerves, that's all it is. Nerves and stress. Everything will be fine when the wedding arrives." There was clearly a metaphorical lump in Mary's throat, full of emotion, that threatened to spill over the top as she spoke. At this point, John didn't know who Mary was trying to convince: him or herself. "Do you want a cup of tea, love?" she called, scuttling away.
Tea wouldn't make things any better, but it was a diversionary tactic that John had successfully used on Sherlock many times in order to change the topic of conversation, or to ease awkward situations. John nodded, belatedly realising that Mary had left the room. "Yes please, love."
Mary busied herself in the kitchen, summoning up the courage to ask her next question before John resumed his position by the window and lost himself in silence again. "Have you chosen a best man yet, John? The wedding's in three days! You need to get him a suit."
"Yes," lied John. "Don't worry, Mary. It's all been sorted."
This time, Mary didn't detect the lie. Sherlock would've done, but then, he wasn't here. "Good. I was getting worried, you know. Three days to go, and no best man! Who did you decide on asking in the end?"
John didn't particularly want to lie to Mary again, but she wouldn't be pleased with the truth either. He didn't have a best man. He'd avoided thinking about it, just as he'd avoided thinking about the wedding. Something else - besides the obvious absence of Sherlock - felt wrong about the whole thing, but John couldn't put his finger on it. Anyway, with regards to a best man - even if the whole situation suddenly, miraculously, began to feel like it was the right thing to do over the course of a night - the only man that John would really have contemplated asking was Sherlock, but circumstances obviously rendered that impossible. John doubted that Sherlock would have agreed to do it anyway, what with the consulting detective's aversion to sentimental displays of affection, or his distaste for feelings in general seemingly. "Can it be a surprise, love? You'll see him on the day anyway."
"If you want, love. I'm just glad it's all sorted."
"Mmm," John said noncommittally, just as an idea came to mind. "You know what, love, I might skip the cup of tea, if that's alright. I need to go and see a man about a dog, if you get what I mean."
"Oh, okay," Mary said, a little startled by her fiance's sudden urge to go out. John hadn't left the house for at least a week, preferring instead to resume his position by the window and watch London pass by. "No worries, love. Just let me know when you're going to be back, and I'll have dinner ready."
John shook his head, quickly typed and sent a text message whilst shrugging on his coat. "No need. You have dinner without me. I'm not hungry, anyway." He entered the kitchen and gave Mary a quick peck on the cheek before rushing through the front door, leaving his fiancee behind in the overwhelming silence.